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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25099366">like a rollin' stone (excuse me, while i kiss the sky)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusboob/pseuds/cactusboob'>cactusboob</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anachronistic, Beverly Marsh &amp; Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Beverly's ship is secret/suprise, Driving, Everything may change, F/F, Hippies, M/M, Richie and Mike are in a band together, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, Woodstock, Work In Progress, a bit. i tried</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:14:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,325</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25099366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusboob/pseuds/cactusboob</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>for true believers, woodstock was about cooperation and mutual aid, and about making love, not war. but woodstock was also a whole lot of people getting stoned at a concert, which was much easier than working to change the world.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bill Denbrough/Eddie Kaspbrak, Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. hope i only leave good vibes on your living room floor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The world is spinning in circles and your name is Stanley. Everything is so </span>
  <em>
    <span>colourful</span>
  </em>
  <span> and your name is Stanley and you're in some farm in Bethel, New York and, your mom was so, so mad when you said you were going and your dad was so, so disappointed, and you've let them down, haven't you? And, and-</span>
</p><p><span>And there's someone in front of you, a boy, with unruly black hair and huge, thick glasses rested over a freckled nose. (</span><em><span>His eyes are so</span></em> <em><span>pretty.</span></em><span>)  He's saying something but, you can't hear him. His voice is muffled and the world is spinning. Distantly, you hear rushing water, laughter, electric guitar chords. Drums, singing. Birds chirping. </span></p><p>
  <span>Slowly, the boy's voice becomes more present. "Stan? Hello? Are you there, buddy?" And, now that you think about it, you know this boy. Or, his name, at least. "I'm here, Richie, I'm here," you say. Richie nods and continues to talk about whatever he was before. (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Wasn't I here with Beverly? Where's Beverly?</span>
  </em>
  <span> ) "Oh, Bev? Remember, she went to go use the bathroom, get some water?" And, yeah, you do remember Beverly saying something about that, it was just locked away, just out of reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right, yeah." At this moment, you're thinking, wondering many things but, the main question you have is:" What the fuck did you give me, Tozier?"</span>
</p><p>
  <b>ONE DAY BEFORE</b>
</p><p>
  <b>(Friday, August 15th 1969)</b>
</p><p>
  <span>There are people everywhere you look. You feel crowded, trapped in a room with ever-moving bodies. Beside you, Beverly lets out a loud whoop. “Look at us, Stan! We’re at Woodstock, we’re free, man!” She says, her fiery hair still managing to stand out, even in the extreme mass of bodies. She’s bouncy, bubbly. Happy. Around her neck, there’s a Polaroid camera on a strap and, in her hand, she holds an unlit cigarette. You smile. “We’re not at Woodstock yet, Beverly. We’ve got a few miles to go.” Bev shrugs and waves a dismissive hand. “Miles, schmiles. Hey, lean against the car for me? And- here, hold this.” She hands you the cigarette as you lean against the blue Volkswagen Beetle you bought for your seventeenth birthday.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Beverly, what are you doing?” The air is humid and stale and the sun is bearing down right at you. Beverly smiles. “Taking a picture of you, duh. Now, stay still.” Beverly brings the Polaroid to her eye, backing up a bit to get the right angle. To you, watching Bev take photos has always been fascinating, gripping, the look of utter focus she has, the stance she has while capturing the photo: it’s all so captivating.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the photo develops, you ask to see it and, as usual, it’s beautiful. There’s a glare from the sun hitting your shades, and a random person with a joint in the background and your hair is wild and it- the photo, Bethel, your hair, the amount of people gathered together at the highway, everything- is beautiful. When you look up from the photo, Beverly is in the car looking out the window, watching the sky. “We should probably get going, huh?” You ask, already moving to the drivers side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we should. I really don’t wanna be late, or anything.” If taking photos is Beverly’s thing, driving is yours. Well, that and bird watching. But, driving. Driving, to you, is so </span>
  <em>
    <span>calming</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The never-ending stretch of road being devoured by the hood of the car, the blur of the trees, people, houses as you zoom by, the wind in your hair, all of it is just </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>soothing. And bird watching? It’s just like that, and more. That rush of pride you get when you correctly identify a bird, or that feeling of unbelievable excitement when you see a bird you’ve been hoping to see for ages. Calming, soothing, cathartic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There! Turn, Stan, turn now!” Beverly exclaims pointing hysterically at an overpopulated farm. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>This </span>
  </em>
  <span>is Woodstock! Stan, we’re here! We’re here.” You take a glimpse at her. She’s ecstatic, her smile is wide and bright and </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>and this is quite possibly the happiest you’ve seen her in four years. Behind her smile, there are tears of complete and utter joy and as you turn, you know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>that you have the same look, the same smile, the same tears. (</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. Holy fuck I can’t believe it, I’m here.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After navigating the car past clusters of people, other vehicles and a few vendors, you and Bev find a nice place to park and set up camp. “I wish we had one of those Chevy vans, so we’d have room to sleep.” Beverly says, as she unroles her sleeping bag and lays out on the ground near the Beetle. “If I could’ve afford one,” you respond, heading to the trunk to get your sleeping bag.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sleeping bag you have is old and worn from countless camping and bird watching trips. It smells like wood and incense and like that perfume your mother alway wears- home. “Do you know who’s coming on first?” Beverly asks you after you lay out your sleeping bag beside her’s. “Some guy named Richie.” You answer. Bev hums from her spot on her sleeping bag.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beverly looks so different now from what she did four years ago. Now, she is happy and smiling. Then, she was sad, lifeless, and barely there. Today, she is everywhere, abundant. As bright as her hair in both that of smiles and eyes and her outfit. She wears a bright yellow </span>
  <a href="https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&amp;ccid=TO0KElRK&amp;id=D28A034107BE8A4742DEC250E266A469FF5F91E0&amp;thid=OIP.TO0KElRKReJoayt1cjtviwAAAA&amp;mediaurl=https%3a%2f%2fi.ebayimg.com%2fimages%2fg%2foIwAAOSw9Sxc8rid%2fs-l300.jpg&amp;exph=300&amp;expw=300&amp;q=band+tees+from+the+60%27s&amp;simid=608053406145972712&amp;selectedIndex=12&amp;ajaxhist=0">
    <span>Monkees</span>
  </a>
  <span> tee shirt tucking into slightly faded light blue high waisted </span>
  <a href="https://www.asos.com/women/jeans/cat/?cid=3630">
    <span>jeans</span>
  </a>
  <span>, with a long red </span>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cardigan_(sweater)">
    <span>cardigan</span>
  </a>
  <span> wrapped around her waist and a purple </span>
  <a href="https://www.mercari.com/us/item/m84300720996/?gclsrc=aw.ds&amp;msclkid=9d75434bf8d3135e2cb31d86480f3a6d&amp;utm_source=bing&amp;utm_medium=cpc&amp;utm_campaign=%5BADL%5D%20Temporary%20ROAS%20Shopping%20%7BReg%7D%20SellB%20(Control)&amp;utm_term=4576098683786232&amp;utm_content=ADL%20Shopping&amp;adlclid=ADL-69d045d4-020e-4df7-ab4d-fdcee091681a">
    <span>flower crown</span>
  </a>
  <span> atop her long, vibrant red hair. She looked absolutely breathtaking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know, Beverly, you look quite charming today.” You say, sitting down on your sleeping bag. Distantly, you wonder if you have enough time to take a new nap before the first gig. “Aw, thanks Stan. Man, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were hitting on me.” Beverly giggles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Haha,” you respond, sarcastically.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>[richie]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not the Richie we booked.” Joel Roesnman says to you when you walk into the backstage area. “I’m not?” You respond, feeling confused. “No, you’re not. The Richie we booked is colored. You are white.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh. Yeah, yep. That's right.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Hey, kid. What’s your last name?” John P. Roberts asks you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um. Tozier?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Fucking Lang.”</span>
  <span></span><br/>
<span></span><br/>
<b>[stan]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Okay, Stan, push the gas. Not too much, not too much. Just enough to give her a little boost, yeah? Okay, turn, turn. Right. Okay, push the break, now. Woah! Not so hard. Use your blinker, push it down. You should normally use your blinker a little bit before you get to the turn point, okay Stan? Stan! Stan!”- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan! Wake up! Stan,” is the first thing you hear after your nap. When you open your eyes and see </span>
  <em>
    <span>people </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>farm,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re confused for all of five seconds before you remember the anger, the disappointment, the resentment. -And Beverly’s smile when you told her that you were going, that she’d have this one moment. (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Worth it. So worth it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Finally, you’re awake. I thought I was gonna have to pour water on you, Stanley.” Bev giggles as she watches you slowly come back to the rest of the world. “Time is it?” You ask her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Five something. That Richie fella’s about to come in a few.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. little darling, the smiles returning to the faces</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Izitabane is Zulu for the word gay~</p><p>you learn new things everyday! ☆</p><p>(i also had the word Afeminados that was either spanish or some type of mayan/aztec language, depending on where you search for it)</p><p>~☆take a shot everytime the word 'van' is read☆~</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p>
  <span>Between the time of which Richie gave Stanley the acid and Beverly told Stanley she was going to the bathroom, Stanley began to trip </span>
  <em>
    <span>balls</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which was pretty hilarious to Richie. But, Richie’s getting ahead of himself, isn’t he?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>YEARS BEFORE</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>(Tuesday, July 7th 1965)</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“D’you wanna start a band, Mikey?” Richie asks out of nowhere, his mind fuddled. He feels ethereal, musical, never-ending. He is open and vulnerable. (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Everything is purple.</span>
  </em>
  <span>) “That’s a terrible band name, Richard,” Mike says and Richie starts laughing. “Was that a yes, Michael?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, duh.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>YEARS LATER</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>(Friday, August 15th 1969)</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike and Richie, who are ‘professionally’ known as The Izitababes, found out about Woodstock from Mike’s cousin, Steven, who found out from his older brother, Roger, who found out from his friend, Nick. It’s like a six foot worm of knowledge. Originally, he and Mike weren’t supposed to go but, then, Richie gets a call from some dude by the name of Jang (maybe Lang?), saying that he just “</span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>to open for the festival! It would be a really great opportunity for you, Richard.” And, really, how was he supposed to say no. Mike would’ve killed him if he had, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, yeah, this is why Richie and Mike are in an old, beat up (let’s be honest here, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>just barely </span>
  </em>
  <span>working) 1967 Volkswagen van, on the way to Bethel, New York from Derry, Maine. At this point in time, they’re a tad bit over halfway there and Richie is so </span>
  <em>
    <span>nervous. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He wants to light up but, he can’t because he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>driving </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he’s already a bad enough driver as it is, and Mike legally can not drive (no driver’s license) but, he’s sweating in places he didn’t even know he could sweat and his mind is racing and, </span>
  <em>
    <span>is he even breathing right now? Richie, Richie! The road! </span>
  </em>
  <span>and, and, what?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie snaps back to himself, swerving back into the right lane and looking over at Mike, who looks like a queasy mix between scared shitless and concerned shitless. “Pull over,” he says. Richie does as he’s told and pulls over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You okay, man?” Mike asks, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the edges. Richie sighs. “I just need a break, a blunt.” Mike nods. “Switch spots with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After switching spots with Mike, Richie calms down and lights up. He watches as the smoke encircles him, watches as it slowly swirls itself round and round. MIke hadn’t rolled the windows down and that’s probably gonna bite them in the ass later but, right now, Richie couldn’t care less. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maple and Red Oak trees zoom past his window and the smoke begins to encompass the van and Mike drives slow and precise and Richie is </span>
  <em>
    <span>calm. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“The trees are so beautiful, man.” Richie says, or maybe he thinks it, or maybe these words never come to him at all. He doesn’t know. He’s tired. With languorous movements, Richie curls up and gets comfortable. </span>
  <span></span><br/>

  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Right before he falls asleep, he hears a distant, “Yeah. Far out, daddio.” And, then, he’s out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>🌸🌵🥀</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up a short while later, Mike nudging him and saying something about how,” If you wanna stretch your legs, Trashmouht, you better get out now.” Richie mumbles something that might be,’ yeah, whatever.’ and shoos Mike away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does get up and out of the van, eventually. He gets out of the van, stretches his ‘freakishly long’ legs, rolls another joint, and leans against the van. He smokes and he stares. Stares at his beat up and dirty old yellow Vans, stares at the people here, on the highway (there are people </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It feels as though there is no space, just bodies.), stares at a couple by a blue Beetle as they take a photo.  By the time the blunt is gone, the couple is, too and Mike, who had been flirting the whole time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span>, has managed to score a number, or a kiss, or something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie can tell by the smug grin he’s sporting. “Hey, Richie, man, come here!” Mike says, when he notices Richie staring. Richie slowly walks over to where Mike is, standing next to a boy with dark brown hair. He nods his head in lieu of a greeting. The boy nods back. “Richie, this is Bill. His car broke down, so he and his boyfriend are coming with us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Richie, nods his head and says,” In this vehicle, we share and pass the grass.” Bill laughs and Mike rolls his eyes. “So, we can come? That’s good! Let me just go and get Eddie.” And he walks a little bit further off, where a short boy is talking animatedly to a group of people by a phone booth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do we have any room for them, actually?” MIke asks, kind of as an afterthought. Richie laughs and says,” And that, my dear Michael, is what happens when you think with your dick instead of your brain.” Mike punches him in the shoulder, light and quick and fond. Richie goes to hit back but, before he can, Bill and Eddie are back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” Eddie says, running his hand through his hair. “Oh my God, Bill,” Richie exclaims, “he’s adorable!” Eddie scowls and Bill grabs his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>🌸🌵🥀</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bill drives this time. At first, Richie was a bit apprehensive about an Unknown handling his sweet baby, Fireball. But, then, there’s a blunt in his hand that’s suddenly in his mouth and he can’t care as much, anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hi, everybody! We're The Izitabanes!" Mike announces. Bill and Eddie are backstage and Richie is incandescent. Richie is bright and passionate. In this moment, there is nothing wrong. With him, with Mike, Bill, Eddie. With the people in the audience. </span>
</p>
<p><span>And the audience. The audience is intrigued, they are listening to him and Mike and they're music and Richie can not</span> <span>believe that. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>He feels like a star, big and bright and forever. He could go on, and on.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i was supposed to wait until the 21st of this month, because i have a schedule and i *need* to stick to it but, however, i am very proud of and eager about this so i went i ahead and posted it but, however, the next chapter, chapter three, may actually be a bit late because i have another fic im working on (it's for stan/bill/richie an is slightly based of netflix's Hollywood)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. it seems the things are goin my way</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>just a quick lil filler chapter where stan is high and experiences some internalised homophobia and i lay the ground work for some ohter things</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Color, color, color. It is <em> everywhere </em> . Everything has color, and it is vibrant and beautiful and you're blown away, amazed. You're not sure what Richie gave you, he doesn't even know, and you're not sure where Bev is but. None of that really matters right now. The sky is purple, the sun is green, the grass is pink and you, you are <em> alive </em>. Beside you, Richie sways to the beat and sings along and, in the distance, you think you see Beverly- there's a flash of bright red-orange hair and the flurry of a cardigan.</p><p> </p><p>From what you can see, she looks happy. That's good, that's nice.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But then I met you one happy Sunday </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It seems the things are goin' my way </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Now I see that where love is there in your life </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You will find that everything's right </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It's so silly, so silly (<em> and so wrong, Stanley! Dirty, dirty! Sinful!) </em>but, you kinda wanna kiss him, just plant one right on him, quick and sure and- God, what are you talking about? </p><p> </p><p>You don't know, you never know. Your heart pounds in your chest. You still want to kiss him. "Stan, tell me, what'd ya think of my performance?" Richie asks you. He's closer than before, and you can kinda smell the grass and bourbon and whatever else on his breath.</p><p> </p><p>"It was…" <em> (Amazing, wonderful, beautiful, take your pick.) </em> "...pretty good. Better than anything I've ever seen." You say. Richie, who doesn't know that he's the <em> only </em> person you've ever seen play live, lights up and smiles a smile so impossibly wide, you think you can see the edges of it coming off of his face and falling onto the ground. </p><p> </p><p>"Thanks, man. That's, like, beyond awesome. Totally groovy!" Richie exclaims, talking a mile a minute. He's jumping up and down a little, too. His glasses fall down the slope of his nose. "Oh, hey! There's Mike! Mike, man, over here!" Richie motions two guys, one that you recognise from Richie's set and one you haven't met, over. "Hey, Richie," the one you recognise says. You think he played the drums.</p><p> </p><p>"Stanley, this is Mike, Mike this Stanley." Richie says, pointing between you and the one that played drums. Richie points to the other one and says," And, why, Michael, who is this?" In an absolutely terrible British accent. It's annoying, it's adorable. </p><p> </p><p>"This, Richard, is Ben. We met a little bit after we got here." Mike says, bumping shoulders with Ben, who smiles and says," Hi. I loved the set." Richie looks between Mike and Ben multiple times before announcing," I approve, Mr. Hanlon." Ben blushes and Mike rolls his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"So, Stan. Has Richie kidnapped you? Or are you a groupie?" Mike asks you, his eyes alight with mischief. You laugh, saying," I guess I'm a groupie." Mike smiles and nods his head and Richie says," Can ya believe it Mike? Our first groupie!"</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>/+\</b>
</p><p> </p><p>"Do you know that we weren't even the right band," Richie asks from in front of you. Somehow you four- Richie, you, Mike and, Ben- have ended up in your car. Ben and Richie are in the front, with you and Mike in the back. "Really," you ask, leaning forward to hear Richie better. This sounds interesting. "Yeah. They, uh. Wanted some Havens cat, or something. But, they got the Izitababes, instead," Richie answers, shrugging. </p><p> </p><p>"Well. I think they got the better band." You've never heard of this 'Havens cat' but, you're rather sure no one could ever, ever beat Richie and the way he is on stage. </p><p> </p><p>He is effervescent and bright. He's got this, this sort of chemistry with the audience that keeps them captivated, hooked on the lyrics. Lyrics that are so beautiful and so, so poignant that it <em> hurts </em> . And all of that song by a voice so beautiful it makes you fucking <em> weep </em>.</p><p> </p><p>"Heh. Well, thank you." You can't see Richie but you'd like to imagine he's blushing. </p><p> </p><p>"So, Stan, you should tell us about yourself," Mike says, after you've leaned back in your seat. "Seeing as the only thing we know about you is that you're our first groupie." </p><p> </p><p><em> What should I tell them </em>, you think. You, personally, have always been guarded, locked up with the key thrown in a volcano somewhere. You have to be, to survive. You are a deviant, sinful and wrong. You shouldn't even exist. Shrugging, you say," There's not much to tell, man. I'm just like you, a 'long-haired weirdo' finding his people." Ben, who's been rather quiet, really, nods his head and Mike makes a noise that sounds like agreement. </p><p> </p><p>"And your girl," Richie asks. It takes you a minute to catch up with who he could be referring to but, when you do, you immediately start correcting him," Beverly? She, she isn't 'my girl' or, really, <em> anyone's </em>girl for that matter. You see, she's kind of her own person entirely. "</p><p> </p><p>Beverly is… she's like you, a deviant. Though, she doesn't see it that way. She sees herself as different. But not <em> bad </em>different.  Just- different. </p><p> </p><p>Richie makes a noncommittal thinking noise. Ben yawns. A guitar riff plays out. Everything feels still, peaceful, a sort of calm you haven't felt since you were a young boy.</p><p> </p><p>"Y'know," Mike says to know one in particular, "We lost Bill and Eddie."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah," you agree, though you've not the slightest idea of who that it is," and I've lost Beverly. "</p><p> </p><p>"Eh," Richie waves a dismissive hand, "we'll find 'em. Us 'long-haired weirdos' always find each other."</p><p> </p><p><em> Do we, now, </em> you think, rolling your head to the right to look out the window. You hear Richie's voice in your head, saying, <em> Yeah, we do.</em></p><p>
  <b>Saturday, August 16th</b>
</p><p>The sun has come up, bathing the farm in dull, vague light. The grass is lightly misted with dew and the world is quiet, soft. Serene, even. Colour no longer dances behind your eyelids, and your heart has since slowed.</p><p>Richie is nowhere to be seen, but Ben is still resting in the front seat and Mike is standing beside the car, smoking a cigarette. The smoke twists and turns in the air, making a sort of hazy ballerina.</p><p>Ben snuffles in his sleep, and Mike puts out the cigarette. Languid blinking and soft breaths, quiet guitar riffs and harmoniously soothing voices.</p><p><em>(Imagine waking up to this every day) </em>Mike slowly gets back in the car, seemingly to adhere to the general feel of this morning. He doesn’t notice you, not yet.</p><p>Instead, once he’s gotten into the passenger seat of the car, he leans back against the seat and just <em>breathes. </em>You assume that, in his head, he’s thinking. Maybe about the same things that you are. Maybe not.</p><p>Ben wakes up later, rubbing his nose and doling out good mornings. He and Mike begin a conversation that you occasionally join in on but, for the most part, you’re silent. Just watching these people you’ve just met, that have just met each other, talk and <em>live.</em></p><p>This isn’t what your father was thinking when he banned you from going, was it? He was thinking of, well, the worst possible thing he could. And, yet, the only thing you’ve done since you got here is talk. Talk and live and <em>be. </em></p><p>You close your eyes, the tranquillity of the morning pushing you back to sleep. You’re dreaming of soft lips, beautiful voices, and coke-bottle glasses when a hard knock on the backseat window awakens you.</p><p>Groaning, you look out the window- and, huh, right there in front of it is Richie. He waves his hand. “Hi, Stanley! I think I found someone,” and then he steps away from right in front of the window, revealing a smiling Beverly with an equally smiling lady on her arm.</p><p>“I found her at the concession stand. The <em>other </em>her I know <em>nothing </em>about. Was with Beverly when I found her,” Richie informs you. Getting out of the car, you eye the smiling lady warily. <em>Who is she and what does she want with Beverly?</em></p><p>“Stanley! Oh, I´ve found you at last,” Beverly exclaims, needlessly dramatic. Her flower crown is no longer on her head, possibly knocked off sometime during the night.</p><p>You gesture to the lady, making the universal expression for,´ <em>What? Who?´ </em>She giggles and makes a show of pulling the lady forward so that everyone could see her. She looks familiar, in a vague, abstract way. Maybe you’ve seen someone that looks like her? Perhaps in a magazine? </p><p>The lady is beautiful. She has long, brown hair and a smile that promised mischief and rivalled the sun. “This is Janis Joplin,” Beverly says, with a whimsical sort of flourish. You think you hear Mike and Richie gasp in collective unison.</p><p>
  <b>/o\</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Some Hours Ago</b>
</p><p>
  <b>[beverly]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“And, why, pray tell, should I tell you,” Beverly asks, smirking. The lady in front of her smiles, a heavenly sight, and shrugs. “Just because?” Beverly scoffs, attempting to push a smile away,“´Just because´? Lady, you could be some wackadoo attempting to kill me.”</p><p>The lady makes a mock-aghast face, shaking her head. “I´m no murderer, I promise. I'm a performer, actually. I think I'm meant to go on in, like, three hours, maybe?” She gestures around, pointing to a man with drums and another man with a guitar in the process. Beverly nods her head, hums. “Still not giving you my name.”</p><p>The lady makes a face, apparently thinking. “Now, how´s about I tell you mine first,” she asks, smiling indulgently. Beverly shrugs. “Hmm. Ok. Well, I´m Janis- Janis Joplin. I´m from Texas and I sing. What about you? Who are you, red?” The name, Janis (-Janis Joplin), is rather familiar to Beverly, but not familiar enough for her to grasp it. “Who am I,” Beverly repeats.</p><p>
  <b>/o\</b>
</p><p>
  <b>The Now</b>
</p><p>
  <b>[stanley]</b>
</p><p>There is a pause, a very shocked and charged pause, and, then, Richie bursts out with a,“ <em>Janis Joplin!? </em>As in BBHC, Janis Joplin,” which is really nothing but a shrill shriek that hurts your ears. Janis smiles. “Yeah, that was me.” It seems as if Richie is second away from passing out. After sparing him one last wary glance, you fit your eyes on Bev. Silently, with the help of eyes and eyebrows, you managed to convey,“ Be careful, Bev.”</p><p>Beverly smiles, nods her head. You sigh, worried for Bev, even though you know she has herself. She´s wickedly resourceful, resilient, and <em>smart. </em>She´s sort of the dictionary definition of ´don´t judge a book by its cover,´ that old adage.</p><p>And, yet.</p><p>That's exactly what you still do. You worry far too much about, well, everything, really- but mainly Beverly. And, really- who can blame you? After what happened years before? </p><p>Richie shakes you out of your reverie, shrieking something or other about an autograph, while Janis (<em>God, why does she sound so familiar?) </em>talks with Mike.</p><p>These are the people that you know, now. The people that you have met, the people that have made you their own. And the one person, the one person who you´ve- Beverly gasps, her eyes bright and her eyes wide.</p><p>For a second, you think she's heard your thoughts, read your mind. Wouldn't be the first time, would it? But then she says,“ Oh, do you know what would be an absolute <em>gas!? </em>Pictures! Can I take pictures? Are we all cool with that,” she asks.</p><p>Everyone smiles and agrees that pictures are a great idea. Beverly goes about getting everyone in a place where there is lighting that will ´suit their facial features´, something you still don´t understand.</p><p>A few years back, Beverly had tried to teach you about the ways of photography but she had failed. MIserably so. See, the thing Beverly likes about photography is the freedom, the near-complete absence of rules and regulations, and the way there aren't any ´you can only do this like this unless you´re doing that, then you can do <em>this´ </em>s. And, see, funnily enough, that's exactly what you dislike about photography. When you are driving or birdwatching, there are rules, things to look out for.</p><p>When turning, turn on your blinker, watch the speedometer so you don't pass the speed limit; keep an eye out for a certain type of bird, make sure to stand in the correct place. Rules are what makes you, rules are your foundation. So, maybe that's why an impromptu trip to Bethel, New York surprised (and confused, and angered) your parents.</p><p>“-has she been doing it long?” You catch the tail end of something Mike, who has now materialized right beside you, was saying. You throw him a confused look, wordlessly saying that you didn't catch the whole sentence. Mike chuckles,“ I said, ´I didn´t know that Bev did photography. Has she been doing it long?´ But, no matter to that. What had you so deep in thought, Stanley?” You shrug, watching Beverly position Richie this way and that. </p><p>You'd bet all the money in the world that the picture, when it comes, will be a certified <em>masterpiece. </em>With Bev´s skills and Richie´s looks, this picture was destined to be so.</p><p>Maybe you'll ask to see it later, when it's just you and Beverly and the night sky. Maybe you´ll marvel at Richie´s beauty, at his warm, beautiful brown eyes- the sun bouncing off of them, causing them to shimmer a brilliant golden.</p><p>Oh, how the high noon sunlight would bring out his freckles… The picture would be so, so beautiful. ( <em>Like Richie, just like Richie) </em>Richie would be in the left of the picture, looking as though he has been forgotten during the process of taking it.</p><p>But, he hasn't been, that's just the way Bev likes her pictures- the focus not at the focus. She's weird like that. And, Richie- he would have an unlit cigarette in his hand, or maybe a mic, and his hair would be falling into his eyes, and lips would look so soft, so soft and so kissable and, <em>God. </em></p><p>“..And, now, I've lost you again. What are you thinking about now, Groupie?” Mike asks. You blush, feeling immensely and excruciatingly embarrassed. Mike laughs, a warm and endearingly infectious thing.</p><p>A few chuckles escape your lips before Mike says,'' Based on that blush you're sporting, I assume it was Richie.” You splutter, and you gasp, and you squawk- all in a futile attempt to dispel such an assumption from Mike´s brain.</p><p>
  <b>/o\</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Friday, August 15th</b>
</p><p>
  <b>[mike]</b>
</p><p>Mike leans forward in his seat when he hears Ben whisper his name. “Yeah,” he asks, his heart beating faster than it was mere moments before. <em>Get it together, Hanlon, </em>he tells himself, shaking his head. </p><p>“Are,” Ben begins, then stops. He inhales harshly. “Are Stan and Richie a thing?” He nods his head to where Richie has turned completely around in his seat, his front facing the seat’s back.</p><p>His face is mushed between the headrest and the side of the car- which has to be a funny site, if the way Stan is laughing is any indication. “Oh, <em>Ben, </em>” Mike says, shaking his head like a disappointed mother. Ben squawks out, “What? Are they not?” </p><p>Mike does a weird nodding-his-head-but-also-shaking-his-head combination thing and says, “Well, they aren’t. But they will be. I give it by the end of this here festival before they’re cuddled up together.” <em>And I hope I can say the same for us. </em>Ben laughs, a soft, hazy sound floating in the moonlight.</p><p>
  <strong>/o\</strong>
</p><p>
  <b>The Now</b>
</p><p>
  <b>[stanley]</b>
</p><p>“We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to, Groupie, but I’ve noticed. And, well…” Mike trails off, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like ‘you’re not very subtle, anyway, man.’ You blush an even darker shade of crimson, trying your best to dig yourself out of this whole.</p><p>“Yeah, well, uh, how’s about we talk about this <em>never, </em>” you manage, in a strained voice, pulling what you <em>hope </em>is a threatening face. Considering the fact that Mike just laughs and walks over to Ben, it more than likely wasn’t all that threatening. Deciding to put this particular interaction in the rearview, you plop down in the grass, lying down and looking up at the sky.</p><p>Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of a bird or two. Birds are cool. Being a bird would be even cooler. No worries, no responsibilities, no affinity for rules, and no hot dudes named Richie with stupid, dorky glasses and beautiful, breathtaking voices.</p><p>Suddenly, there’s a face above your face- <em>RIchie’s </em>. <em>Speak of the devil, </em>you think “Hi,” he says, removing his face from right above yours and plopping down beside you, instead.</p><p>“I can’t believe your friend is getting all close and personal with <em>Janis Joplin! </em>Man, this is <em>such </em>a trip.” Richie’s eyes are alight with child-like excitement and awe. It is a rather adorable sight.</p><p>You nod your head, agreeing with Richie, until you remember that you don’t even know who Janis Joplin even <em>is. </em>“Wait, uh, who is this, this Janis character?” You sound like your dad. You sound like your dad when you first introduced him to Bev, five years ago. Richie makes a confused face, “Can I ask you a question?” You nod your head. “I´ve noticed that, uh, you don't really know the people down here. You don't even act like the people down here. Why did you come here, Stan, if you don´t <em>get </em>here?” The question surprises you, throws you off balance.</p><p>You sigh, thinking of the best way to answer him. Tell him the truth, or tell him what you told your mom? Richie has another look on his face, a deep one, important one. One you'll more than likely remember for years to come. You decided on telling him the truth, and not the bogus one you made up on the spot to convince your mother.</p><p>“I dunno. I think I just. Wanted to go. I had the means and the time and someone to go with that knew a bit about all of this so… I went. Here I am, there I was. You know?” Richie nods his head but, before he can say anything, the band that had previously been setting up beings to play. “Whose this,” you ask. You have to repeat yourself several more times, yelling louder and louder over the increasingly deafening crowd, before Richie actually hears you. “Quill,” he says.</p>
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